“So Mr Harker, you’re saying someone came out of the mist at the docks and knocked you unconscious.” Yes, that’s right constable”, said Jonathan Harker (for it is he), “and when I came around my ship, bound for Transylvania, had set sail without me!”

Meanwhile out in the fog at sea Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is sipping a hot toddy: “Free, free at last, that blasted pianoforte will but a distant memory, tell me helmsman where are we headed?” “Why, to the Black Sea port of Varna Sir and from there you travel to Transylvania”. “Ooooh that sounds lovely, I can’t wait”

The next section be an hextract from Fitzwilliam Darcy’s diary:

I journeyed ever Eastward, by ship to Varna and then onward by coach into the dark and mysterious land of the Cronanian Mountains. In the foothills of the mountains we stopped at an Inn for the night. The food, though not to our fine Portsmouth standards and heavily seasoned with Paprika, was palatable enough and the wine was quite drinkable. As I made ready to retire to my room the young, buxom, peasant girl who had been serving my table, made inquiry as to where I was journeying in this land. In response I said I was bound for the residence of one ‘Count Cronan’...as the words left my mouth, the whole Inn fell silent at once and the peasant girl gasped and fell into a dead swoon!

“Do not mention that name within these walls” said the Landlord, “you will bring a curse upon our heads! ...I advise you not to continue with your journey Englishman...go back to Portsmouth if you value your life!”

Well they’d obviously never heard Liz Bennett hammering out her tunes on the pianoforte, what a bunch of ignorant peasants, next morning I set off across the mountains for the castle.

After an arduous journey I finally beheld the craggy edifice of Castle Cronan. Wolves howled and mist swirled around the grey walls. I banged on the door with a huge pair of knockers...the sound echoed out across the void but there was no answer...”Cronan must be out for the Count”, I thought, but suddenly the ancient doors creaked open and there stood Cronan.

I cannot describe the Count well as the thick mist which clung to the walls of his castle seemed to envelope the man as well. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor. With a strength which belied the man’s scrawny appearance the Count pulled me inside the castle and immediately began rifling through the papers which I had purloined from Jonathan Harker. The Count seemed pleased with the acquisition of Earwax Abbey in Portsmouth and sat me down at a table laden with food and wine. I admitted I was dying of thirst to which the Count replied “not half as thirsty as I am” and sunk his teeth into my thumb where I nicked it trying to get the buxom peasant girl’s blouse off!

After that things went from bad to worse. Imagine my horror when the Count insisted on regaling me with Ancient Cronanian folk songs to the accompaniment of 3 very pale girls on the pianoforte. That night I tossed and turned in an extremely dirty dream about the buxom barmaid and an unnatural act involving a harpsichord.

The next morning I awoke to find that the Count had left for England and I seem to be getting very sharp teeth and an urge to drink Bloody Marys.

Tis with much sorrow an a heavy hook I be writin' this. Much 'as 'appened in me life: I's stood on a scaffold wi' the hangman's noose about me neck, I's sunk two man-o-wars off the coast o' Zanzibar, an I's seen attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. Oh, an' I's seen c-beams gliterin' in the dark somewhere.

However, me hearties,I's bin tricked.Cap'n GreenSmith sez to me "Fancy comin' to a shindig for me birthday?" Of course, I sez yes. Tis only much later that I finds out that the bash be held on a boat, an' the foolish swine hast only invited Cap'n Cronan hisself! The boat'll be on the bottom quicker than a starvin' rat up Bart's trouser leg.

There be no way out. I's accepted to a share a boat wi' Cronan, so I be marked. Me only hope is to somehow survive the comin' apocolypse. I only hope I's can find a floatin' beercrate to hold on to.

Eternal FSM, strong to saveWhose noodly arms hath bound the restless wave.Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deepIts own appointed limits keep Oh hear us when we cry to thee For those in peril on the sea.

O FSM! Whose voice the waters heardAnd hushed their raging at Thy wordWho walked'st on the foaming deepAnd calm amidst its rage didst sleep. Oh hear us when we cry to thee For those in peril on the sea.

After a few grogs an some Pirate Pole dancin we all became rather jolly ourselves an forgot about our predicament...lulled into a false sense o securitee.

Then I spotted Cronan seated on thee Starboard side, my eye saw passed Cronan at the near by shore and suddenly me heart nearly stopped in terror...the horizon was goin UP...and we were goin DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!

...and now mateys, with thee snow fallin and thee wind howlin, pour yerself a grog, sit down at thee fireside and lend an ear to me new Long Winded Ghostly Xmas tale:

The Ghosts of Xmas Spirit

Arrr it was thee night afore Xmas aboard thee Jolly Futtock and all thee Pirates had hung out their socks fer Santa...thee stench was enuff ta kill an Albatross at four paces!

Down in thee galley the cook had put thee finishin touches to his Weevil surprise Xmas puddin and had tucked himself in fer thee night.

Thee Captain looked out thee window at thee snowy landscape...they’d sailed to Lapland speshul like just fer thee effect. With a frisson of excitement thee Captain thought about what likely presents he’d get from his crew...last year thee highlight had been a three month holiday on Skull island (lovely weather but it had been hard work keepin thee Cannibals away from his camp).

Thee midnight Twelve bells sounded and an unearthly silence descended on the ship, thee only thing movin were thee bilge rats in the bilge and thee weevils in thee bread. Soon the sound of snoring drifted up into the falling snow.

Suddenly thee Captain was awakened by the clankin o chains and a kockin on his cabin door...nervously he got out of his hammock and, approaching the door, he called out: “Who goes there?”

At that a ghostly figure drifted into the room.

“Whoooooooo...it be thee ghost o Peg Leg Jack yer olde matey”

“PPPPPeg Leg JJJJAAACK,” stuttered the terrified Captain, “Ye’ve been dead these past five years ever since ye fell over board an got eaten by a shark...there was a rumour that ye was pushed but nothin was ever proved!” Ye be nothin but the heffect o two bottles o rum and a piece o wenslydale.

“Whooooooooo,” said the ghost, “I’ve come ta give ye a warnin Cap’n...this night ye’ll be a visited by three ghosts”

“Noooooooooo,” said the ghost, never heard of em, “The first ghost will call at thee hour o one...I can say no mooooooooore,” and with that Peg Leg Jack disappeared in a puff of ectoplasm.

The Captain lurched over to his table and counted the empty rum bottles...three...it had been a heavy night. No wonder I be seein things he thought and went back to bed.

Hardly had the Captain’s head hit the pillow it seemed but there was a groaning and a moaning coming from somewhere in the bowels of the ship...at that the hour o one struck and the cabin door burst open...and there stood the terrifying sight of the ghost o Captain Cronan!!!!

He was ghastly grey, with a livid scar running from ere to ere (from the time he’s slipped whilst tryin to open a bottle o grog wiv his teeth). He was drippin wet and partly covered in stinking seaweed from thee very depths. A stench of rotting flesh was partially disguised by a strong wiff of Laphroag whisky.

“Whooooooooo...hic...ooooooo...thee next ghost will come when thee hour strikes twoooooooo!!!!!”

With a huge belch, the ghost of Cronan was gone!

The poor Captain staggered back to his hammock....what could be worse than the ghost of Captain Cronan? Not me X wife he thought with a shiver...or Filthy Crab Pants Jones!!!! The poor Captain crouched down in his hammock too terrifed to sleep until, with a sound that seemed to come from Davy Jones’s locker itself the hour of two was struck...

The cabin door flew open again (lucky he’d got the hinges oiled recently thought the Captain) and there stood...

The Captain went and got the last four bottles of rum and laid them out before the hideous apparition. The fiend drained every last drop, saying before he left:

“Whooooooooo...hic...ooooooo...thee next ghost, hic will come, do you have any nice thnacks by the way...I could murder a few sausages or a bag o thnuts, when, hic, thee hour strikes thix...sorry, thfife...no I mean thhhreeeeeeeeeee!!!!!”

The ghost disappeared leaving a huge belch hanging in the air.

“I can’t take much more of this” said the Captain to himself, “I wont be able to eat me Xmas dinner at this rate.”

“Still” he thought “only one more ghost to go...I just ope it’s Cutthroat Jake or Scurvy Nosed Pete...anything but...

there was a crash as the cabin door flew open yet again, it was three of the clock and there stood...

Cronan yet again...the ghost was leaning against the frame of the door this time, looking a bit unsteady, but in a terrifying voice from the grave he cried:

“Whoooooooooth...I tham the goat of Thaptain thronan” said the ghost, “Your grog or yer life ye blaggarth!”

“Oh crikey”, thought the poor terrified Captain “I haven’t got any rum left...what am I goin to do?” Then he remembered the little bottles of grog he’s slipped into the crews socks...it would have to be sacrificed for thee good of the ship.

That fiend Cronan drank every last drop o grog on the ship and before he disappeared he cried “I’ll be back nexth year...try an remember thee snacks, hic.”

Next mornin it was xmas mornin! The crew awoke and rummaged excitedly in their socks only to find nothin but a weevily biscuit wrapped in a very sticky page from last months Wobbly Wenches.

And what of our poor long sufferin Captain? Wel...this year he got six months on Skull island.

The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.

A terrible storm had driven our shyppe north. After 3 days the storm abated and we found ourselves off the craggy coast o Scotland. An Englishman needs ta think twice afore he sets foot on Scottish shores, let alone an English Pirate...but we were driven by thirst and hunger.

After getting ashore we came across an old man who, on seeing a Pirate, cried out in terror:

“Arrrrgh Och a Fachan! The beast with one leg, one arm and one eye is upon us...we’re dooooomed...dooooooooomed!”

I explained that we were only humble Pirates looking for food and drink and he calmed down a bit and explained that in Highland lore there was a creature called a Fachan...

“Tis terrifying, with one leg, one arm and but one eye...and very, very ugly!”

“Yes thank ye’” said I “Less of the ugly if ye don’t mind...now where can we find food an drink ye daft old sod?”

With that the old feller drew close, his breath smelling o whisky, and he said:

“Och ye’ll be needin to cross the mountain....on the other side ye’ll find a village inn...but mind ye don’t meet with...Black Donald!!!!!!”

“Black who?” says I.

With a furtive glance toward the hills the old fellar answered:

“Black Donald haunts these hills, tis said he is the devil himself...if ye see cloven foot prints...run, run for yer lives!”

I grabbed the old sod by his ragged collar: “Look mate...tell us how to get to the Inn...cloven footprints my arse...tis likely to be a deer or a stray sheep.”

“Nay” said the old un “An watch ye don’t meet Old Shellycoat...och the terrrrrible bogeyman...he haunts the rivers and streams...he be covered in shells an ye’ll as like hear him rattling.”

Well I’d has enough of this and said:

“If ye don’t tell us how to find the Inn It’ll be your bones what rattle you old rascal.”

Finally we got our directions and set off up the mountain path with the voice of the old man in the distance still shouting:

“Ye’re doomed dooooooomed!” and “Don’t go near the old castle and mind ye don’t come upon the black beast with the head of a cat and the body of a cat...”

Sure enough as we climbed ever upwards, we saw cloven footprints leading off into the bracken. A little further we stopped for a drink at a mountain stream, a rattling sound came from the misty heights above!

Upward, ever upward we climbed until we reached the snow line. Suddenly out of the mist loomed a dark craggy shape, it was a ruined castle with ivy clad walls and the wind howling through it’s empty windows. Snow had began falling so we decided to take shelter in the ruin before pressing on for the village below.

We were almost under the shadow of the castle walls when a terrible cry pierced the gloom:

This was followed by the squeaky terrified voice of someone protesting his innocence and though we were afraid our curiosity led us forward into the castle to see what was going on...and there we saw an unbelievable sight...

It was the game of Texas Holdem from hell....

There in the middle of the keep sat a very ugly man with one leg, one arm and one eye, an old man in a black suit...with cloven feet, a strange creature who appeared to be covered in shells and...

The Pirates stared in horror...there at the head of the table sat...

Snarling and slavering like a maniac, clutching a bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine, wearing a string vest and a massive Tam o Shanter with ghastly lank ginger hair hanging from it...there sat...A Glaswegian!!!!!!!!

That was it...we ran back to the ship as fast as our peg legs could carry us!

The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.